


it's just enough to make me wanna die

by castielanderson



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Borderline Personality Disorder, Depression, Finale spoilers, Gen, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, allusions to kidnapping, allusions to underage sex/statutory rape, kinda. what happened in canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 19:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9919556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castielanderson/pseuds/castielanderson
Summary: Wes is dead.And maybe Connor wishes he was fucking dead too..A meditation on Connor's suicidal ideation.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hello i love my canonically suicidal son u can find me at shawnnhunter dot tumblr dot com

“Wes is dead.”

 

Connor doesn’t know how many times he’s heard that phrase being spoken in the last week.  After awhile, it gets old.  Yeah, Wes is dead.  And maybe Connor wishes he was fucking dead too.

 

.

 

Laurel doesn’t forgive him.  Not that Connor really blames her.  He blames himself too.  She wants him to kill himself?  Well, fuck, he’s more than happy to oblige.  Michaela and Oliver are both crying.  Both of them reach toward him, tell him that of course they forgive him.  Neither of them have any idea what it was like in the moment.  Wes was dead.  Connor couldn’t change that.  He’d sure as hell like to believe that.

 

He shakes them off.  Their forgiveness doesn’t mean anything.  Especially when Laurel stares at him with eyes that tell him the exact same thing that came out of her mouth.

 

_ It’s the only good thing you’re gonna do in your life.  You’re gonna go and you’re gonna kill yourself, Connor. _

 

She’s right.  And he really would probably take a knife from the kitchen and stab himself in the stomach right now if Oliver and Michaela weren’t here.  Instead, he mumbles something about needing air and heads out the front door.

 

The sharp bite of the cold air hurts his skin.  He likes it.  He closes his eyes and lets the wind whip his hair around.  A sudden spark of energy flows up his spine.  He’s been so exhausted lately.  But he just keeps pushing himself to move.  Get out of bed.  Shower.  Get dressed.  Do whatever he’s supposed to do so nobody notices anything’s off.

 

Except he did let them know.  He just didn’t have the energy to text Michaela.  And if he didn’t text her why would he answer her calls.  Or Asher’s.  Why would he do anything?  Connor doesn’t realize his chest feels tight until he’s taking in a deep breath.  The air gets caught in his throat and he thinks he might start crying again.  He’s cried so much in the past few days since Oliver uncovered the secret he’d been harboring.  He’s surprised there’s any water left in his body.

 

“Connor.”

 

He turns his head.  Micheala’s joined him out on the porch.  He didn’t hear the door open.  “What do you want?”   
  


Her eyes are still wet.  “I didn’t want you to be alone.”

 

Connor scoffs and wraps his arms around himself.  “You scared I’m gonna off myself the second you turn your back?”

 

“Yes,” Michaela says, without an ounce hesitation or insincerity.  In fact, she sounds almost angry at him.

 

Connor rolls his eyes and stares forward.  “Look.  Just because Annalise said - “

 

“I’m not an idiot, Connor,” Michaela rounds on him, stepping into his line of vision.  “You’re not okay.  You haven’t been since the night Wes died.  You’re falling apart, and I know you’re on the edge.”

 

The familiar heat returns behind Connor’s eyes.  He lets out a stuttering breath and grinds his teeth together.

 

“What Laurel said to you was uncalled for.”

 

Connor can’t help it; he laughs just a little.  “No it wasn’t.”  He looks down at the ground as he toes the wood of the porch.  “She’s not the only one who’d be thrilled to see me dead.  There’s a whole fucking host of people.  Some you don’t even know,” he adds with a snarky expression.

 

But Michaela comes back at him and hits him right where he’s weakest.  “And one of them is yourself.”

 

Connor snaps his eyes shut, swallowing hard as he fights against the sobs that threaten to rise once more in his throat.  “Whatever,” he whispers.  “Like it fucking matters at this point.”  He tries to sound nonchalant, like his usual bitter self, but he chokes on his words.  As more tears slip past his cheeks and he dissolves into half-hearted sobs, Michaela wraps her arms around his waist, hugging him tightly, nestles her head in the crook of his neck.  She’s crying too, but she’s so calm.

 

“You’re my best friend, Connor.  You’re like an annoying older brother, and I love you.  Please.  Don’t.”

 

“I can’t make any promises,” he croaks.

 

She squeezes him harder.  “Shut up and just lie to me.”

 

He laughs.  It starts as a small snort, but a fully-fledged laugh bubbles up behind it.  “I’ll be fine, Michaela.”

 

.

 

He’s still picking at the grass, pulling it up between his fingers, the soft soil getting caked underneath his fingernails.  Wes has gone back to studying.  He doesn’t know what overcomes him, but he’s vulnerable, and he’s low, so he just says it.

 

“Do you ever wish you could just disappear?”

 

Wes is quiet for a moment.  Connor stares at the ground, but he knows Wes looks back at him.  “All the time.”

 

Connor huffs, gives a smirk.

 

“I don’t do anything about it, though.”

 

Connor’s head snaps up, and he meets Wes’s eyes.  He realizes he should be agreeing, should be assuring Wes that there’s nothing to worry about.

 

“Y - yeah,” he mutters.  “It’s just a nice thought sometimes.”

 

.

 

Connor has no idea how long it’s been since he’s last eaten.  It’s more than forty-eight hours.  He knows that.  And yet, he’s not hungry.  He’s actually nauseous.  All the adrenaline he’d felt at defying Denver has started to die away and he’s back to the emptiness.  His limbs feel so heavy.  He’s exhausted.  Annalise doesn’t have the radio on, and he’s thinking he might drift off.

 

“Tell me I don’t have to worry about you.”

 

His drooping eyes snap open as he looks over at Annalise.

 

“Worry about me how?  I - I just rejected the immunity deal,” he says, disbelieving.

 

Annalise sighs.  “No - I mean - can I trust you to be okay?”

 

Connor blinks.  Then snorts.  “I’m never going to be okay,” he mutters.

 

“Connor.”

 

“What?”

 

Annalise slams on the breaks as they come up to a stoplight.  He’s jerked in his seat and is immediately overcome with dizziness.  “ _ Jesus -  _ “

 

“I’m going to spell it out for you,” Annalise says.  Connor curses under his breath and rubs at his neck.  “Are you going to kill yourself?”

 

The dizziness increases.  Connor’s too tired to lie.  “I don’t know.”

 

The light turns green and Annalise pulls the car gently forward.  “I know you want to,” she says.  “I know it seems like the best option sometimes.  It’s easy.  No more problems.  No more emotions.  You don’t have to keep putting up a front and pretending you’re fine.”

 

He swallows hard.  He doesn’t understand how it’s so easy for Annalise to get inside his head.

 

“I’ve considered it for as long as I could remember,” Annalise continues, and Connor feels his blood run just a touch colder.  “But I never do it.  Because it’s messy.  It’s messier than you could ever imagine, Connor.  And if I haven’t given in after forty years, then I know you can get through it.”

 

She says nothing more, and Connor doesn’t know how to reply.  He lets the silence hang between them.  Slowly, he turns his head, brings his eyes to look over at her.  He’s been working for Annalise for almost two years now.  They’ve been through hell and back several times over, and he still doesn’t know how to approach her.  He’s not stupid; he knows they’re alike, the two of them.  Fucked up pasts, out of control anxiety, the desire to push everyone around them away.  They’re two fucking peas in a pod.  But that’s never comforted Connor.  Only scared him.  He doesn’t want to be like her.

 

Annalise brings so much death in her wake.  All she does is screw people over, ruin lives.  And she simultaneously takes all of the responsibility and none of it.  She’s absolutely insane, but then, isn’t he?  He’s watched the same people die around him.  He pushed someone else to suicide, and he’ll probably never forget that.  He ruined Oliver’s life.  Led him to contracting HIV, got him involved in all of this murder shit, put him in danger over and over again.  Fuck, maybe he deserves to live and watch himself turn into Annalise.  That’d be worse than death.  He pushes that thought away; it only makes him want to kill himself more.

 

The car rounds a turn, and Connor recognizes Bonnie’s neighborhood.  When Annalise pulls into the driveway, she turns to him again.  

 

“I need an answer, Connor.  Should I be worried?”

 

Connor looks through the front bay window of Bonnie’s house and sees Oliver.

 

“No,” he says and swallows hard.  “No, you don’t have to worry about me.”

 

.

 

Connor fights hard against the security officer holding his arm, but the man is strong.  They’ve come to a stop outside the counselor’s office.  A police officer stands outside the door, waiting for them.

 

“I can take it from here,” he tells the security officer.

 

The security officer slackens his grip on Connor’s arm and he yanks it free.  He wonders offhandedly if it’s legal for them to roughhouse a sixteen-year-old minor.  Maybe he’ll file a claim with the president of the school.

 

“Don’t worry,” the police officer says.  “You’re not in trouble.  I’m just here to make sure you’re safe.”

 

Connor scoffs.

 

“The counselor will just be a moment, I’m sure.”

 

Connor just looks at him sourly.  He can’t believe he was pulled from class for this.  He straightens out his uniform as he mutters under his breath.  This is completely fucking embarrassing, and when he finds out who did this, he’s going to kill them.  Everyone probably already thinks he’s goddamn nutcase.

 

“Connor Walsh.”

 

He looks up to see the door has opened and a woman holds out her hand.  “My name’s Bridget, and I’d just like to have a word with you.”  He shakes her hand, dejected.  “Why don’t you step inside my office.”

 

He heads straight for the chair in front of her desk and collapses into it.  His foot begins tapping immediately, and he keeps rubbing at his mouth.  He’d just like to get this the fuck over.

 

Bridget clears her throat.  “Do you know why you’re here?”

 

Connor flips a hand over his wrist.  “No fucking clue.”

 

“Aiden Walker came to us out of concern for your safety.  He says you threatened to kill yourself.”

 

.

 

Oliver has yet to let go of his hand.  They sit nestled into one another on Bonnie’s couch as Annalise updates everyone on the situation.  Connor’s slumped, cheek against Oliver’s upper arm, trying to keep his eyes open.  He wants nothing more than just to go home and sleep in their bed together.  He wants to keep breathing Oliver in; it’s the only thing that’s keeping him calm.

 

At some point, Oliver nudges him awake.

 

“Hmmm?” he mumbles.

 

“Asher wants to talk to you.”

 

Connor opens up one eye and is greeted with the sight of Asher standing over them with a steaming mug in his hands.  Connor immediately perks up.  “Is that coffee?” he asks.

 

“Hot chocolate,” Asher says.  

 

He holds the mug out and Connor takes it carefully.  He brings the ceramic to his mouth and takes a long, hearty sip.  The heat calms the awkward fluttering in his chest.  His heart is no longer pounding, but he’s nowhere near comfortable.  He gets so lost in the feeling of comfort that he forgets Asher is there until he clears his throat.

 

“Hey, uh, O-man, could you give us a second?”

 

“Oh,” Oliver says, and gives himself a shake.  “Yeah - yeah, sorry.  I’ll go, uh - I’ll just be talking to Michaela.”  He leans over and kisses the top of Connor’s head before standing up.

 

Asher takes his spot, and Connor begrudgingly pulls himself up into an actual sitting position.  He wraps both hands around the mug and faces Asher so he can cuddle into the back of the couch.  Asher folds his hands together in his lap, and stares forward at the coffee table, concentrating on it so hard he looks like he’s trying to shit.

 

“Asher,” Connor prods.

 

He closes his eyes tightly and shakes his head.  “Uhh - sorry, I just.  I don’t know how to start this.”

 

Connor raises his eyebrows in judgment.  “Take it easy, big guy.”

 

Asher glances over at him and frowns.  His eyes look vaguely watery, and Connor starts to panic.

 

“Denver didn’t do anything to me.  Don’t get weird.”

 

“That’s not - “  Asher starts, and he rubs his face harshly.  “Look, I just - “  He takes a deep breath.  “I’m sorry I blamed you for Wes’ death, and I’m sorry - I’m sorry we all isolated you, and - and made you feel bad.  Um - and I’m sorry - Laurel was harsh, and after Annalise said you were going to - yeah.  I’m just - I’m sorry if anything I said or did made you feel like you had to - to, you know - “  He stops talking and coughs.  He’s definitely crying now, and Connor’s panic has increased tenfold.  He’s starting to wish everyone didn’t know he was suicidal.

 

“Asher,” he says, voice low.  “I don’t blame you for anything.”

 

Asher nods, tears fully falling.  “I don’t want to lose you too, man.  Especially not like that.  Not after my dad - “  He swallows hard.  “I couldn’t save him.  And if you - and there was something I could have done - “

 

Connor shakes his head, almost vigorously.  Asher doesn’t have to explain.  Connor knows what it feels like to not be able to save someone.  “Don’t, Asher,” he says, voice a croaky whisper.  “I’m - I’m gonna be okay.”

 

Asher keeps nodding, nodding until he hiccups and leans forward.  He pulls Connor into a tight hug.  Connor wants to protest, but he can’t.  He hugs Asher back.

 

.

 

His camp counselor tells him they shouldn’t talk to each other after camp is over.

 

Connor goes home and spends the last week before school holed up in his bedroom, thinking about taking a handful of his mother’s migraine medication.

 

Nobody checks on him, asks him what’s wrong.

 

.

 

It’s three o’clock in the afternoon.  Connor expected to sleep for a long time after the events of the past few days, but he only slept until ten.  He just hasn’t been able to get out of bed.  He feels paralyzed.  Any amount of relief or joy he experienced last night after going home with Oliver has disappeared.  He’s back to the rut.

 

The door to their bedroom creaks open.  Connor doesn’t look up.  He keeps staring at the same chipped spot on the nightstand that he has been for the past five hours.  He’s too tired to look away.  He feels the bed dip behind him, but he gives no acknowledgement to Oliver.

 

“Con?”

 

Oliver scoots up behind him.  He leans over, kisses Connor’s cheek and snuggles up next to him, one arm wrapping around Connor’s waist.

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

Connor shrugs.

 

“Are you hungry?”  Oliver nuzzles his chin against Connor’s shoulder.

 

“No,” Connor says.

 

Oliver pulls back.  “Connor, you haven’t eaten in three days.”

 

“I know,” he says.  He’s still nauseous.  The thought of food just makes his stomach tense up more.  He’s too tired to eat anyway.  He mostly just wants to fall back asleep, but his mind won’t let him rest.  It’s too noisy.  Laurel’s words keep repeating in his head.  He keeps hearing Michaela and Annalise and Asher ask if he’s going to be okay.  He’s glad he never made any promises.

 

“Con, talk to me.”

 

He sighs, but it comes easier than he expects it to.  “This isn’t ever going to end.”

 

Oliver’s grip on him tightens.  “What do you mean?  Wes took the fall for both murders, and his own murder case has been dropped for the time being.  You’re safe now, Connor.”

 

Connor heaves a deep breath.  He’s so tired.  “I didn’t mean any of that.”

 

“Then what?” Oliver asks.

 

Connor grinds his teeth together.  “This,” he says, and a trembling hand comes up to hover over his chest.  “How I feel.  The guilt.  The fear.  The self-hatred.”

 

“Connor - “

 

He laughs, chokes on the way it feels, and coughs.  “You know, when Laurel told me to kill myself, I really wanted to.  When I went running the other night, there was this moment where I stopped to catch my breath, and I saw the bus coming and I thought, what if I just stepped in front if it?  What if I just stopped everything?  I almost did it.  She’s right.  It’s the only good thing I can do.  And I deserve it.”  Connor finishes with another deep breath.  Oliver’s grip on him has slackened, but he doesn’t dare turn around and look at him.

 

They’re silent for a long, long while, and it starts to hurt Connor’s ears.  His mind starts drifting by the time Oliver says, voice raspy and thick, “You almost stepped in front of the bus?”

 

Connor’s lungs deflate.  He’d briefly hoped Oliver had missed that in the rush of it all.  “Yeah” he whispers.  “I balanced myself on the curb and waited for it to come close, and then I just - I was too scared.”

 

Oliver starts shaking with what Connor knows are sobs, and he feels so guilty that he finally turns around and pulls Oliver flush against him.  “I didn’t do it, Ollie,” he pleads.  “I’m here.  I’m alive.”

 

“Yeah, but you don’t want to be.  And I don’t know how to change your mind.”

 

“Ollie, don’t,” Connor says, stroking his hair.

 

“What?”

 

“Don’t take responsibility for this,” Connor says, throat constricting.

 

Oliver resigns himself to silence once more.  Connor continues to play with his hair, excited just to have Oliver at the end of his fingertips again.  He closes his eyes and breathes in the smell of him.  He never knows how to describe it but if he could he would just say “home.”

 

The sun gets lower in the sky, casting a soft, evening light through the window.

 

“Connor?” Oliver asks.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“When’s the last time you saw your therapist?”

 

.

 

He didn’t want to do this.  He was convinced it was a bad idea, but Oliver persuaded him, told him that now that everything’s out there, that Wes has been blamed for the murders of Sam Keating and Rebecca Sutter, that Connor was let off the hook by the police, that he can be honest with his therapist, and patient-confidentiality laws will protect anything incriminating that he says.

 

So he went, and they talked about his depression and PTSD and his suicidal thoughts, and none of those are anything new.  What’s new is the orange sheet of paper with nine symptoms on it, all of which describe him perfectly.  He holds the paper and stares and stares and stares at it until the words start to blur and he can’t read anything it says.

 

“Based on what you’ve told me today, it’s clear that you exhibit all nine criterion for Borderline Personality Disorder.  I’m recommending we start a DBT-based treatment immediately in order to lessen the danger that you pose to yourself.”

 


End file.
